


Ficlets - Season Two

by Zagzagael



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zagzagael/pseuds/Zagzagael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three ficlets from S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ficlets - Season Two

Stefan could hear the crying before he found Damon.

The siren’s call of his traitorous sailor’s heart. 

He hung his head, closed his eyes, willed his body into a tense stillness and reached out, used his senses to find his brother. Sense of sound, the sobs wracked and swallowed, wracked and swallowed, beating against his ears, the sound of birds hitting the glassed walls of his mind. Sense of smell, rich dark coppery tease, he could not help the movement of his tongue across the front of his white teeth, he could almost taste the crimson life on his lips. Silent echoes of death death death. He strode through the darkened house, Damon’s grief the bloody guiding edge he ran his hands along, the pathway that always led to this place he knew so well now. The door through which only he and Damon entered.

Even the house was shamed and he stumbled in its blackened soul. Damon was in the basement and Stefan’s feet felt as though poured from lead, each step down another step closer to the horror he already knew he would find below. The smell of that blood so familiar, so achingly, lovingly given and taken. 

Finally, he stood in the passageway, looking into the carnage of the cell, the walls painted with her rich veins, her body rent and drained.

“I wanted her to love me. Love me, too. The way she loved you.”

Stefan shook his head sadly. “I know. I know.” He stepped in and crouched down beside this man he had chained to himself a hundred and fifty years before. He had done this. “I know, Damon. How about bed now? Sleep?”

“I want to sleep, Stefan. I want to go to sleep.” Damon reached up and he reached down. He would come back later and clean it all away. 

He could cry for her then. 

 

***

 

She had never really been his. His to have. Not really. Not for long enough. Not for good. Not for that elusive ever and after.

He could hear them now. His ears filtering like sieves; catching only the sounds of their love-making, discarding all other sounds. Auditory detritus. 

His screwed his eyes shut. It was all too much, too painful, too inescapable. The inevitability of it made him cringe.

Her voice soft and vulnerable, his edged and overcome. 

He shuddered at the memory of her body, the taste of her, the feel of her, the sound of her, these sounds. He turned to the night and is gone out the window, running until their cries become owl song.

Opposites attract, he knows this. He had magnetized her, awakened the iron in her blood, and she was pulled away from him. She and he were too similar, she and him just different enough. Eventually she could not resist and let herself be pulled, body and heart. And, probably - he groaned aloud - Damon would have her by her soul. Soon enough. And that felt destined in some dark way, as well.

He stumbled to a stop, leaning against a tree, feeling the sap rise, pressing his mouth to the bark. It was the life in her that had drawn him. Her resemblance to Katherine a tantalizing taunting of the life that had been taken from him. 

Now that she was gone from him, he wondered why he was turning away. Not willingly, but resolutely. Damon hadn’t been. No, he had turned towards, pulling Elena to him and pulling Stefan apart.

 

***

 

Sometimes they all shared a bed, and sometimes they did not.

Some nights he was too hungry, too selfish, too needy, and on those nights he and she burrowed down into linens that smelled of sunlit meadows. He would pull her to him, into his arms, and he would rock her to sleep, wrapped up tight, humming some old fashioned lullaby she had never heard before. His mouth beside her ear, his hand cupping the back of her head, holding her fast against his body. 

And then there were the nights he came to her and they moved under polka-dotted sheets that smelled of bargain laundry detergent and she would giggle and remember earlier days of frottage and fumbling and he would pull the bed clothes over their heads and tickle her.

Other nights he let her go, and those were nights filled with an endless physicality that bewildered her and left her breathless and exhausted and bruised but never bitten. He knew better than to tempt that particular rage-filled god. She would cling to him and he would carry her far away to places she never knew existed before, places that lived inside her body, inside his body and they would travel there together and never leave his bed. His bed with pitch black sheets that smelled of the forest at night, the blood-red silk blankets that wound around her like grave cloth.

But the nights she was beginning to crave during the days were the nights that all three of them came together in front of the massive fireplace, on the rug, on the sofas, the chair, the table, against the wall, the imported ceramic tiles. Tumbling down through time standing still, time sped up, time stretching to the impossible point at which it would begin to break and her cries rang out like shattered crystal. Nights that seduced day with the three of them fast asleep in one or the other bed, tangled together like mussed bed clothing, the smell of blood and sex and sweat filling her senses like nothing ever had before.


End file.
